Guilty Pleasures
by I.Write.Love
Summary: There were just somethings you did late at night in a desperate attempt to get off that you wouldn't ever want him to know about. DaveJohn angsty smut.
1. 1

**I wrote this a few weeks ago when I was trying to sleep at like, three, but couldn't... I was having a lot of DaveJohn feels, and I was procrastinating working on Labeled (-shot), so here. Have some... uh, DaveJohn three-shot thing! yeah! :D**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Homestuck~**

* * *

You should be sleeping.

It's two in the morning, and you've got school in four hours, but no matter how hard you try, your mind won't stay quiet about anything. Specifically, about one thing, one very entertaining thing that you really shouldn't be thinking about right now, but you can't stop it. You try to switch your mental channel to that hot girl in your physics class you almost had a fling with, or whatever porn you had looked up on your phone in a desperate attempt to wear yourself out, yet it doesn't work, and your mind just brings you back to who you shouldn't have in your mind as your hand jerks up on your hard dick, and you fight down a moan.

In your mind, it's not your hand, and you're not worrying about your older brother on the other side of the paper thin walls. The fantasy you've made in your head is near perfect- Bro isn't home, and the pressure you feel is his hand, or his mouth, and you're crossed between the two before finally deciding the latter, slipping your eyes closed in ecstasy, and imagining his tongue sliding up the bottom of your cock, mouth hot and wet, blue eyes looking up at you from behind black, soft eyelashes and his dark bangs, pink lips pressed against your swollen flesh. His name is on the tip of your tongue, but you can't bring yourself to say it yet. He pulls away, a small smile on his face, and he crawls up your body, soft pianist fingers caressing your skin, his own erection pressed against your stomach and he stops at your lap, eyes needing and wanting. "Dave, please, I want you so bad…" he moans, lustfully, rocking his ass back against your cock.

Next thing you know he's riding you, bouncing in your lap, every downward motion eliciting a moan and a squeak from his mouth, hands braced on your chest as he rises up and falls back down. He's saying gibberish you half understand, the air hot and bed sheets far away, his mouth opened and tongue barely peeking out of his buck teeth. Then he's moaning and gasping something out of a bad porno, screaming "fuck yes" and "deeper please!" among a mess of tangled words and then he's coming, and you're coming, too. He's still whimpering your name, and when he collapses against you, he looks up at you and smiles, mumbling out "I love you", before you're rushed back to reality, panting and gasping for air desperately, back in your bed, in your apartment, alone and the heat is settling and fading and you're feeling cold, hand still on your dick and covered in your own release, and you slump against your pillows, mumbling a soft "I love you, too" and falling asleep too quickly.

* * *

When you wake up the next morning, you're sticky and exhausted, sunlight peeking through your blinds, and with a slow glance, you look to your clock, seeing it's already nine, and you know you've missed your first period. Your boxers are at your ankles, and you pull them up, feeling the soreness in your thighs, where you were bucking up into your touch, and clumsily rise from bed and stumble out the door, eyes catching sight of your brother on the couch. "Why aren't you at school?"

"Slept in." You tell him, simply, walking past him to the kitchen, grabbing a box of cereal and a bowl for your breakfast. "I'm not going today."

You know he's watching you, but you don't dare turn. "Does it have anything to do with the shit you were doing last night?"

Your blood runs cold at the question. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Dave I'm not fucking stupid. I could hear your moans through the walls." He says, and you hear him pick up the TV remote, flipping through the channels.

You slow your actions and shrug. "Yeah. I wore myself out. No big deal." You rather not think about what you had in your mind during your impromptu jack-off session, but Bro's casual discussion has you reliving the guilty, sick thoughts.

"Who's John."

At that, you actually freeze, bile rises in your throat and you force yourself to swallow it back down, hands clutching the cereal box you held too roughly. You can feel the regret and the guilt that you're the sickest fucking person for thinking about him during something like that, to think of him on your dick out of everything, and you have to will yourself not to vomit from the guilt. "No one."

"From the way you were moaning and whimpering his name I wouldn't say he was no one." Bro has you in a fucking corner again, and you bite your lower lip too hard and rush off to the bathroom to throw up, letting the emptiness in your stomach splash into the toilet until you're choking and sobbing on your emotions.

* * *

After finally stomaching some breakfast and taking a shower to clean off the sweat from last night and the vomit from this morning, you fall back in bed and it's already noon. You feel drained, and you're still sniffling- you'll never tell Bro but you were crying in the shower too- and a quick alert on your phone rouses you from your almost nap. Drowsily picking it up and unlocking it, you check the text and find there's not one, but four, and all from the last person you wanted to think about right now.

**John:** _hey where are you?_

**John:** _dave? are you sick? oh god i hope you're ok_.

**John:** _um you're probably still asleep but there's something i needed to tell you… haha but you didn't come to school today. i'll tell you later_.

**John:** _get better soon… i miss you, dave. lunch is lonely without you._

Your stomach knots uncomfortably, and you shoot back quick texts before throwing your phone back on the nightstand and rolling over to bury your face in your pillow.

**Dave:** _stayed home_

**Dave:** _sorry i didnt answer this morning i was asleep_

**Dave:** _ill be back tomorrow so dont worry_

**Dave:** _youre in class and wont get these for another hour huh_

**Dave**: _i guess ill talk to you after school_

**Dave:** _and john im so fucking sorry_

**Dave:** _shit im really sorry_

**John:** _sorry for what?_

**John:** _dave?_

But you can't hear your phone over the sound of your sobs.

Your name is Dave Strider and you feel like the worst human being.


	2. 2

You shouldn't be here.

It's four in the afternoon, school ended an hour and a half ago, and since you got a text back from Dave at noon, you haven't been able to focus on what you should have- school work, maintaining an actual intelligent conversation with Rose so she wouldn't pester you about your feelings and emotions (something girls just didn't understand), and specifically focusing on what you were going to do about that rising sense of guilt you got just thinking about Dave. You have to physically put up a mental block to keep that from your mind, especially as you stand in front of the door to his apartment, your teeth digging into your lower lip a bit more forceful than you thought, and you finally raise your hand to knock, looking down at your feet.

You should leave. You should take your idiotic, guilty ass right back the hallway and back down the elevator and all the way to your house and you can just lay there and feel terrible about everything that's happening. You're just ready to run when the door opens and an older, more muscled version of Dave, right down to the shades and the platinum hair, opens the door and leans against the frame, looking down at you. "One of Dave's friends?" he asks, voice gruff and you nod, once, nervousness bubbling in your stomach. He steps back and goes back to the couch you can barely see beyond the door, and motions to the back of the apartment. "He's in his room."

It occurs to you that you've never been in Dave's apartment before, only seen parts of his walls in shitty webcam video quality when you two video chatted. You walk in and close the door behind you, seeing the door that his brother had motioned to before, clearly marked with a huge red 'D' in spray paint, and you carefully step around the stuffed puppets and cords from turn tables and walk over to the door, knocking lightly. No answer. You feel that rush of guilt course through your veins again, and your hand shakes on the door knob, remembering all those damn images you had running through your head, and you feel sick for a moment.

_'No, don't do this. You have to talk to him. Come on, John.'_

You throw every last shred of caution you had to the wind and open the door, and the first thing you see is Dave at his computer, facing away from you, headphones on and some audio editing program up on the screen. He's only wearing boxers and a t-shirt, legs crossed in his office chair, and your mouth falls open for a second, before you slip off your messenger back, setting it down by the door after closing it, and walking carefully over to him, avoiding all the crazy wires and cords, looking up to see a make shift line holding pictures move in the gentle breeze from the open window. In your moment of complete obliviousness, your foot catches on a cord, and you fall face-first into the ground, knocking over a cinderblock bedside table, his alarm clock clattering to the ground.

Dave jumps in his chair and spins around quickly, shades missing from his face and eyes- red, dazzling, stunning, breathtaking, you could go on for hours- meeting yours and his mouth drops as he yanks off his headphones. "What the fuck, Egbert?" He asked, jumping out of his chair to help you untangle your ankle from the cords, hands brushing against your skin as he jerked at your captors. "What the hell are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at home or something?"

You stare at his fingers work against the wires and shrug. "I guess. I just… decided to come visit you, I guess. I was really worried about you today."

He stops his movements, staring straight at your feet, before shaking his head, more desperate to get you free. "I wasn't feeling real great, and I threw up after I woke up, so I stayed home. Nothing to be worried about."

There's some pain in his voice, and you swallow, taking a leap of courage and putting your hand on his wrist to still him, feeling him tense up, eyes still behind his platinum bangs and mouth opened slightly in shock. "Dave, I'm your best friend. I'm going to be worried, even if it's nothing." You say softly, hoping to catch your eyes with his. The guilt comes back, eating away at your heart and you feel it change your mind, to shove you back from the courage you felt just a moment before, and you withdraw your hand, only to have him dive back to grab it, keeping his face down. His fingers slowly tangle between yours, and you feel your heart pound in your ears. "Dave?"

He lifts his head just enough so you can see his cheeks and mouth, skin pale and freckled, dotted with those little dots he hated so much, and there's a tint of red to it, and you feel your own face go red. "Shit," he chokes out, teeth poking out so he can dig them into his lower lip, hand shaking in yours, and you feel your breath catch, and his next words are soft, shaken and small, like he'd rather no one hear him at all. "I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

"Sorry for what, Dave?" You ask just as softly, and your heart's ripping, your insides are churning and you feel that sick guilt all over again, because no, you should be saying sorry, you should be apologizing because you're the one that can't exactly say you think of him a platonic, innocent way when you've got your pants down in the middle of the night, and that makes you feel so sick, mentally and physically because he was your best friend. There were sand-drawn lines in friendship you just didn't cross, and those were one of those lines that you stepped on and fucked up and you're feeling the remorse for. "Dave what are you sorry for?"

"For this, John."

Your eyes grow wide, and you sit there for a moment as Dave's lips are crushed against yours, and you feel how bad he's shaking, how terrible his heart his beating against your chest, how tight he grips your hand because he's terrified, like you, he's scared he's fucking this up, that he's pushing it to the point of no return and he'll lose you like he's lost everyone else. Then he's pulling back, a long string of curses following, and you blink, eyes regaining focus, and there's tears in his eyes, and he's got his hands- when did one of his leave yours?- in his hair and he's sobbing about "how fucking stupid he is", and you only stare, lips still tingling from having his on yours.

"No, Dave…" you start, catching his attention with your soft tone, as your grab his arms and pull him back toward you, resting your forehead against his, blinking slowly, looking into his eyes, the ones he rarely let you see, and you smile sadly, on the verge of tears yourself. "No, Dave, you're not stupid, please don't say that…" That's when the first tear rolls down your face. Your heart is in pieces, your pride is in pieces, your courage is barely holding on, and your mind is just out of the park, and you lean forward, brushing your lips against his carefully, testing the waters before you do anything too rash. "Please."

He stares at you, before letting the desperation fall from his face, replaced with something more like hope, and he sniffles, clearing his throat. "John?" He asks, like he's unsure of where you're going.

You smile, only lightly, chuckling. "I never wanted to tell you because I honestly think you would hate me, but, Dave, I love you."

Dave's eyes light up, a light blush rises to his cheeks and he gapes, slowly smiling back at you, hands coming up to each side of your face, caressing your skin with his thumbs, laughing with relief, the shaking gone and the crushed tone to his voice gone, and you feel your body piece itself back together piece by piece. "Holy shit, John," he says, looking you right in the eyes, tears there, but this time happy. "I love you, too. God I don't know how long I've wanted to tell you."

He pecks you on the lips again, and you laugh, the guilt and shame suddenly rushed away with just that little kiss.

Your name is John Egbert and you feel like you're on top of the world.


	3. 3

**This is all just sex, basically... Just letting y'all know.**

* * *

You never thought this was going to happen.

It's been three weeks since John's awkward confession in the middle of your room, all tangled up in cords, and it still feels like one of your idiotic fantasies you'd get off to in the middle of the night, but you know it's not- oh shit it can't be this is way too perfect for you to think up. You know you're smart and a bit more imaginative than you give yourself credit for, but you could never think this up, no matter how desperate you were, and you sure has hell could have never dreamed this either.

Your hands wander down to his sides, mouth in a heated lip lock with his, and you feel his soft, pianist fingers exploring their way down your back and shoulders, making little noises in the back of his throat when you press into sensitive spots. His tongue is tangled with yours, cheeks flushed red and your face probably mirrors his, and he shifts in your lap, moving closer to you, chests pressing together, and shirts rubbing together awkwardly. His lips leave yours, breathing heavily and hands stilled on your shoulders, chest rising against yours quickly. "Dave…?" He asks, voice choked and husky, blue eyes cloudy and cheeks bright red, those faint freckles you always forgot he had noticeable against his pale skin. He clears his voice, and fidgets in your lap- eliciting a sharp gasp from your mouth- then stills, eyes wide. "Um, are we going to…"

"Only if you're okay with it," you answer before he starts stuttering out the rest of the question, hands at his hips, under his shirt just a little, fingers barely caressing against his skin. He gazes at you, at your eyes uncovered, at your lips, your red cheeks, your mouth slightly open, and nods, leaning back forward to brush his lips against yours. His eyes slip closed, and you do the same, hands running up under his shirt, over his soft skin, and he shivers, moving closer, hands tightening on your shoulders.

You've never done this with anyone. You've never had someone so close to you like this, for it to be so intimate and passionate, and you sure as hell wouldn't want it with anyone else. Never with anyone else.

You slip his shirt over his head after you've parted for air, and he ducks his head, embarrassment getting to him before you've even had a chance to get a good look. You run a hand over his sides and ribs again, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his collarbone, smiling and looking up at him. He goes red and covers his face with his hands, and you frown, grabbing his wrists and pulling his hands away. "No, you're not allowed to hide like that, John," you say, pressing your lips to his, softly, for a moment. "I want to look at you."

He gasps as you trail your hands down his chest, kissing and nipping and sucking gently at his neck, feeling him squirm in your lap, his hands a death grip on your shoulders now. "When I kiss you," you murmur against his skin, hands going around to his back, fingers tracing down his spine. "When I run my hands down your back." He shudders and moves to wrap his arms around your neck, pressing his face into your neck, biting his lip. You hold onto his sides and move him back, so you can see his face again, and the crimson that's dusted his face and you kiss him, leaving your hands at his sides, his lips and your lips moving together gently as he tilts his head a little, trying to fit against you the best he could. Your hands move down to his hips, and you pull them forward, grinding your hardened erection against his, the friction from jeans a bit painful. He breaks off to moan a little, opening his eyes and focusing on yours for a split second before you do it again, eliciting another husky sound from his mouth.

"I especially want to look at you when I do that," you tell him, dropping your voice to be softer, unable to break eye contact with him. He moves his hands to the bottom of your shirt and swallows down what you're going to guess is nervousness. You help him take it off, and then his eyes are wandering all over your chest, at your scars from all the fighting with Bro, and he just runs his hands over them, gentle fingers tracing over the faint ridge they make. "Yeah, I know, there's a lot of them."

"They're cool," John says, smiling faintly. Your heart skips a beat, the anticipation of the situation and the position falling to the bottom of your stomach, and you're pretty sure your hands are shaking. You didn't know what you were doing earlier, and you were sure John didn't either, and it makes you feel more secure than it would most people- you weren't the only one new to this. You put a hand under his chin and lift his face up to make eye contact, and smile, bumping your forehead against his. He smiles back, hands still tracing your scars. "Are we going to do this?"

You nod. "When you're ready."

"I'm ready."

"Are you sure?"

He gives you a look, caught between being unsure, scared, anxious and excited, and nods once, smiling just enough so you catch his buck teeth. "I'm sure."

Your name is Dave Strider, and you're nervous as shit.

* * *

The details leading up to the position you were in right now- or rather, the position both of you were in- were a bit hazy, although you remember there was a lot kissing and touching and it felt really, really good. You never imagined in all those times when you spent a little extra time in the shower that Dave's hands, although rough from years of sword play, were going to be that good at eliciting reactions from you. And now, you surely never thought that it was going to feel this great.

He's leaning against the pillows of your bed, eyes watching you closely, freckles plastered over his nose and cheeks as his hands hold your hips steady, and you brace your hands on the bed sheets beside you, biting your lower lip. "You don't have to, John," he tells you, voice soft and you can hear the concerning tone and feel how his hands shake against your hips, and you swallow down the nervousness, looking down at him. You knew you'd never let yourself live it down if you chickened out now, and you carefully line yourself up with his dick, taking a deep breath and carefully lowering yourself down and _dammit_ did it hurt. You gasp and whimper, hands fists in the sheets, and you look up at him, and he's got his eyes closed tight, and his hands are gripping your hips a bit harder, chest rising and falling erratically. Did you really have that much of an effect on him?

"Dave, are you okay?" you ask, voice shaking, and you move your hands to his shoulders, rubbing his skin gently.

Dave opens his eyes for a moment, looking at you with such a powerful gaze, that you almost melt right there, but his Adam's apple bobs in his throat and he nods, hands loosening up on your hips. "Yeah. I'm okay. You can keep going when you're ready."

You take a minute, catching your breath, trying to get used to the uncomfortable pain, glad that Dave used practically an entire bottle of lube because of his nerves, or you figure it would have been painful. You trace your eyes over his scars, his chest, his flat stomach, and then going back up to look at his face, how he was looking back at you, red eyes fiery and intense, thumbs caressing your hips, drawing little circles on your hipbones. Throwing every care to the wind, every nerve making your stomach bubble weird, you use your knees to rise up , then slowly moving back down, moaning and tightening your hands on his shoulders. His voice picked up against yours, deeper and throaty, and the moment he's all the way in again, you both are panting, staring each other down, every breath in time. "Dave, I…" you start, moving your hips to get comfortable, bringing a small moan from his mouth, and you grow still, leaning down onto his chest and burying your face in his chest.

"John-?"

"Move," you demand, putting your hands on either side his head and tangling your fingers into pillowcase.

You can feel his heart jump in his chest, and how his arms come up around your waist, holding you tightly, his breath ghosting over your skin and he nods. "I…" he sounds worried for a moment, before kissing your temple and you feel him smile against your skin. "Alright," he says softly, moving his arms so his hands held your hips and moving to kiss you once.

And then he's moving his hips, his member sliding out of and back into you almost easily and you're _gone_, the only thing you're aware of is the friction, and how he fits inside and how painful, but wonderful, it feels, and you're moaning against his chest, hands clawing at the pillow case. Your eyes are screwed shut, mouth open as you pant and groan, and it feels so good, so fucking good. The noises you're making in the back of your throat barely rival with the low, husky moans and curses he's rambling on about, as he thrusts and moves, hands pushing your hips down and his go up. He stops for a moment before flipping spots with you, shocking you a bit as he wraps your legs around his waist and grabs your hips again, looking at you straight in the eye. You see his throat move from swallowing and you're both out of breath and then he leans down and kisses you, tongue running over your lips until you oblige, and part, tangling your tongue with his, as his hands hold onto your hips and he moves out of you and back into you at a slow, steady pace, swallowing all of your moans into his mouth. You move your hands to his back, holding onto him and moaning, gasping and panting when he parts to kiss down your neck, occasionally sucking to leave a small mark, running his tongue over the red splotches in apology.

"Faster-ah-please…" you moan, resisting to scream and moan at him to go deeper, but the second his hips start moving back and forth faster, you're losing it, pressing your hands against him to steady yourself, moaning and whimpering and groaning and making absurd little noises mixed with random words and phrases- "faster" "hard" "oh god" "don't stop please"- and then there's stars in your eyes, and your digging your nails into his shoulder blades and running your hands down, practically screaming. "Oh, _fuck_, Dave!" You tell him, arching his back and clawing desperately at his skin. "_There_, oh God, _please, there_!"

Dave makes a noise in the back of his throat, and his next few thrusts are spot on, leaving your throat sore and your back is aching and you're sure you're going to have to treat the scratches later. His name mixes with your voice, and your voice mixes with his string of profanities, and his hand finds your neglected cock and he's stroking you in time with his crazy, frantic thrusts, and you're doing your best to hold onto your sanity, friction and heat and the sound of his skin on yours and how both of you are breathing so erratically all mixing together and causing your senses to overload.

Then, you're screaming his name, and you're coming, covering his hand and your chest and stomach with your white, sticky release, and he's nothing more than a thrust behind you, filling you with his own and barely holding himself up from falling on top of you, red eyes finding yours as you open them.

He's drenched with sweat, and his hair is sticking to his forehead and he looks disheveled and messy, but he's got the biggest smile on his face, and he's just staring at you as you collect and compose yourself. But, finally, you smile back at him as he pulls out, and you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down, kissing him and laughing, not even caring that you were sticky and you needed a shower and that you were both exhausted.

All that mattered, right now, was that you just shared the best moment of your life with your best friend- now boyfriend, you think proudly- and you don't think it could get any better.

Your name is John Egbert, and you're the fucking happiest person alive.


End file.
